


When the West Wind Moves

by grumkin_snark



Series: Comment Fics [26]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Compliant, F/F, F/M, One-Sided Relationship, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-08-30 06:02:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8521219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumkin_snark/pseuds/grumkin_snark
Summary: Five people who loved Elia Martell in secret, and one who told her.





	1. Yorick Sand

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt is the summary, found [here](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/22142.html?thread=15076478#t15076478).
> 
> Because I refuse to believe _no one_ had a thing for her.

Mother said never to wander into the palace, but obeying orders is so _boring_. The pools of the Water Gardens, she’d told him, were open to everyone, and Yorick was welcome to play in them with all the other children, but the interior was only for the royal family and their attendants. Bastards had no place within.

_But Mother_ , he’d whined, _I thought it doesn’t matter that I’m a Sand. That’s only for northerners._

She’d patted his head. _Not always, my son. Best stay away._

Only…what Mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her. He’s not sure exactly what she does during the day, just that she’s always tired and there’s not enough coin for her to hire someone to properly supervise him. He’s always been resourceful, though, and responsible, so Mother leaves him to his own devices when she’s out.

That also means that it’s easy to slip out of sight, and on this day, his excitement mounting, he wanders away, the squeals and laughter of children growing quieter. He peeks around the corner and quickly evades a passing guard. He’s noticed the ones at the Water Gardens are nice enough—or at least he’s observed it, none have ever spoken to him—but each of them carries a spear sharp enough to shave with.

As swift as he is, he thinks one of the guards catches a glimpse of him when he hurries into the palace, and he hides behind one of the pillars, scrunching into a ball deep in the shadows. The guard doesn’t come for him, as it happens, but somebody else does.

“Who are you?” asks a girl somewhat younger than him and thin, the sort of thinness he’s known well. She’s dressed far nicer, though, in some shiny material of bright blue with a purple geranium tucked over her ear.

“Yorick Sand.” It dawns upon him too late that he probably should have lied. 

“Sand? But…” She frowns a moment, then shrugs and bobs a curtsey. “My name is Elia Martell.”

He doesn’t know much about a lot of things, but he _does_ know the name Martell, and it has him gulping. “You’re a princess?”

“Mhm. I won’t rule, though. That’ll be my big brother’s job. He’s a squire for Lord Gargalen.”

She bursts into a coughing fit, her small body wracking with the force of it until he’s afraid she might expel a lung. He rushes forward, not sure what to do. Right as he’s considering calling for the guards he’d tried to avoid, her coughs begin to subside and she waves him off. She sucks in a breath that has a worrying rattling sound behind it.

“I’m all right,” she assures. He doesn’t believe her. “I fall ill sometimes, that’s all.”

Even though he’s only seven, living the way he does means he’s learned to read expressions, and right now he sees the sadness in her, the disappointment, like she expects him to leave. “I could be a squire,” he pipes up. He strikes a pose, wielding an imaginary sword. “I’ll be the greatest knight who ever lived!”

She giggles, and he decides he likes that sound much better than her cough. “I think you could, Yorick Sand.”

Puffing out his chest, he declares, “A knight needs a princess to save. Can I save you?”

She holds out her hand, and he blinks, befuddled. “You’re supposed to kiss it.”

“Why?”

Elia opens her mouth to respond, then bites her lip. “I don’t know. Just _because_.” Yorick does, though judging by her grimace, he’s not sure he did it right. “ _Now_ you can save me.”

“Elia!” yells a voice from somewhere in the depths of the palace. “Little lady, where have you gone?”

“My septa,” Elia pouts. “I thought I’d lost her.”

Yorick blanches. If they think the princess is missing, then surely there are guards on the lookout as well, and he would be in mountains of trouble. “I have to go,” he says, backing away from her. She calls his name as he breaks into a run, bare feet slapping against the pink marble. He glances over his shoulder to check if he’s being followed—which means he doesn’t see the man in front of him until they collide.

“Whoa there!” The man yanks him up by his collar before he can fall to the ground. “Where are you headed so fast?”

Yorick looks up at the man, only marginally glad he’s not carrying a spear, for if he’s in the palace, he must be important. “I—nowhere, I’m sorry, m’lord.”

Mother had always told him to be contrite.

The man smiles, his hazel eyes gentle. He crouches down and asks, “What’s your name, boy?”

“That’s Yorick Sand, Papa,” Elia supplies, flouncing up to them. Yorick groans—how poor must his luck be to run into the princess _and_ her father the Prince Consort of Dorne?

Elia’s septa shouts for her again, and Yorick flinches, needing to _get away_ , but the man’s grip is too tight—

“On the run, are you, Yorick?” The man looks him up and down, and Yorick flushes, knowing what he sees. Raggedy clothes, unkempt hair, crooked teeth, dirty feet. The man fixes Elia with a stern look and chides, “The next time you bring a friend into the palace, you need to tell someone, sweetling.”

“I didn’t _bring_ him,” Elia objects, putting her hands on her hips. “I _found_ him.”

“I just wanted to see inside, that’s all,” Yorick blurts out. “I meant no harm, m’lord prince, really I didn’t.”

Trystane Manwoody appraises him for a moment, then squeezes his shoulder. “No, I don’t believe you did, Yorick. I’d like to speak with your parents, however.”

“I only got a mother, m’lord,” he mumbles. She’s going to _kill_ him. “She won’t be around for hours yet.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we have hours then, isn’t it?”

* * *

Princess Loreza takes the news of Yorick’s presence less well than her husband had, and he suspects that’s the exact reason she hadn’t been informed until _after_ the prince had met with Yorick’s mother and come to an arrangement. He feels like an entirely new person, transformed in the span of a single day. The maids had given him a hot bath, scrubbed his skin raw, washed and cut his hair, served him food so rich he promptly threw it all up, and provided him with sets of clothes that he _knows_ are worth more than his mother could make in a lifetime. He feels rather like an impostor, or maybe that this is a dream, but for as long as it’s offered to him, he’s not going to refuse.

He learns in short order that despite the plethora of children who play in the Water Gardens, Elia doesn’t have much in the way of friends. She’s perfectly gracious to all, the flawless princess, but apart from her brother Oberyn, it’s plain to Yorick that no one her age particularly wants to spend time with her.

It baffles him until he happens upon two boys chatting, and decides to eavesdrop. Elia would say it’s impolite—Mother would say he must listen carefully. And listen he does. _Oh does he._ They speak of her health, mostly, of how they’d heard she wasn’t expected to reach her first name day, that now she’s doomed to die before her tenth, that they find it taxing to play with her because she _can’t_ play in the same ways they can. She can’t run or go outside when the weather’s bad, and now and then the maester decrees she’s not to play at _all_. They say Princess Loreza hawks over her daughter, gnashing her teeth this way and that, that it’s no _fun_ to pretend to be her friend, and that even their sisters complain.

He’s heard enough. One of the guards has to be called to pull him off the boys in the end, such is his anger. He’s bloodied them both, given one a black eye and the other a wrenched shoulder. The guard doesn’t listen to his explanations, merely deposits him in the Princess’s solar and waits outside the doors. When the Princess makes her appearance, Yorick does his best not to be intimidated, though he very much is.

Fearful she’s going to send him away, he blurts out, “I _had_ to, m’lady, you should’ve heard what they were saying! They were _mean_ and no one should talk about Elia that way—”

“Yorick.” He withers instantly, such is her commanding tone. _No wonder she rules Dorne_ , he thinks. _She’s as fearsome as Princess Nymeria._ “You are not here to be punished.”

“I’m not?” He’s gotten in fights before, and he was _always_ punished for it, no matter how much the other person deserved it.

“No.” There’s the briefest twitch of her lips, almost in humor. “A gentleman should never debase himself with such _brawls_ , but I can hardly scold you for standing up for my daughter.” She grows sad for a moment, the lines in her face deepening. “Elia has far too few protectors. I want to thank you, child.”

“Oh,” is all he can manage to say.

She leans across her desk, clasping her hands together. “I am inclined to keep you here, Yorick. Elia is fond of you, and I don’t want to take you from her. But I cannot have you fighting anymore. This is a palace, and while you are our ward, you must adhere to our standards. Do you understand?”

Yorick nods vigorously. “Yes, m’lady princess, yes, I do.”

* * *

Whether at the Water Gardens or Sunspear, he goes where Elia goes, determined not to let the Princess’s mercy go to waste. She doesn’t grow much as the years pass, not like he does, not like her brother does. Three years after Prince Trystane plucked him up by the shirt collar, Arthur and Ashara Dayne arrive in Sunspear, and Yorick’s hackles instantly rise at the newcomers. He discovers in due course that he needn’t have been worried, for Ashara sticks to Elia like glue and Arthur is too busy polishing Prince Lewyn’s armor and getting thwacked by tourney swords to do much else. The Starfall squire does nicely ask him to practice every now and then, however, so he supposes he can’t be that bad.

On his thirteenth name day, Prince Trystane tells him the Lemonwood master-at-arms has agreed to take him on as a squire, and it isn’t until he’s past the gates of Sunspear that he realizes how much he’d come to rely on Elia’s company, her secret smiles and her light touches. But the opportunity to become a knight, trained by a real swordsman, is too good to pass up, especially given that it’s being offered by the Princess of Dorne’s own consort. So he goes, Elia’s kiss on his cheek staying with him the entire way there. It doesn’t feel like so far a distance, for Elia writes him twice a week, most of it sundry and superfluous but occasionally filled with fears or stories.

When the fever ravages the coast, it takes Prince Trystane along with it, and hardly a word is spoken at the funeral. Princess Loreza doesn’t cry—he’s not sure she even knows how—but there is a coldness in her eyes that wasn’t there before, and she doesn’t so much as acknowledge him when he offers his condolences. She doesn’t acknowledge _anybody_ , for that matter. The pleasantries fall to Doran, who is grimmer than ever, and Yorick feels utterly helpless.

He’s comforted, at least, in knowing that Elia and Oberyn are supported. The Daynes are at their sides through everything, Elia gripping Ashara’s hand so hard the younger woman’s fingers turn white, and once, half-hidden in shadow away from the other mourners, he sees Oberyn silently sobbing, Arthur’s embrace the only reason he’s upright.

He thinks he’s been forgotten entirely, until that night Elia crawls into his bed, and he holds her until she cries herself dry. He wakes before she does, and he can’t help but stare at her. Her hair is a mess, her eyes puffy and red, her forehead creased with a frown, but all he thinks is, _I want this. I could die happy if it meant every morning this is what I saw._

The realization that he loves her doesn’t come as a surprise—maybe he’s _always_ loved her—and a spark of hope alights in his chest at the possibility that she feels the same. After all, it had been _him_ she sought out for comfort, not anyone else.

_Maybe_ , he dares to think, _she loves me, too._

* * *

His chance to tell her comes a year later, at the tourney called in honor of Doran’s marriage to Lady Mellario of Norvos. The field of jousters is a formidable one, but Yorick has trained for this since he stepped foot in Lemonwood. He would name Elia the Queen of Love and Beauty and finally tell her what he’s been harboring all this time.

It goes well, initially. He triumphs over all opponents, handily in many cases, and the cheers he receives are music to his ears. They cheer for a bastard, the son of a woman nobody paid attention to. Daeron Vaith wins his bracket to earn a place in the champion’s tilt, and Yorick’s confidence soars, for he _knows_ he can beat him. And then it promptly plummets as he watches Arthur unhorse his cousin Ryon, the heir to Godsgrace, without breaking a sweat. Suddenly the path to the crown becomes treacherous.

Elia beams at Yorick in encouragement from the royal stands, and he marshals his courage. Just because Arthur had been named the Sword of the Morning doesn’t mean Yorick _can’t_ best him. If he imagines Arthur as he was at eleven, all elbows and knees, he no longer seems so intimidating. Arthur nods at him and they don their helms.

Yorick breaks four lances against him, but the last catches him squarely in the chest, and he feels himself lose his position in the saddle. The next thing he knows, he’s flat on his back, his head ringing like a bell from where it had hit the ground. He clenches his hands into fists, cursing himself for his error.

The knight of Starfall comes into view, helping him up from the ground and clapping him on the back. “You’re a worthy opponent, old friend. I just got lucky.”

“No, you didn’t.” The disappointment courses through him in torrents. _Next time_ , he vows. _Next time I’ll win. Next time, I’ll tell her everything._

The champion’s tilt requires half again as many lances, but ultimately Lord Vaith’s son falls backwards off his horse, and Arthur is declared the victor. After offering Vaith a hand up, Arthur waits for Princess Loreza to slide the crown of yellow marigolds onto his lance, and without so much as a second’s deliberation he canters his horse towards the royal stands. Except it is not the bride in front of whom he comes to a halt, nor his sister or mother or any number of other maidens.

It is into Elia’s lap that he delicately places the crown, and he proclaims in a voice that carries clear across the lists, “For you, princess, the fairest one of all.”

A poisoned spear through the gut would hurt less. He’s not surprised at Arthur naming Elia the Queen of Love and Beauty—he’d wanted to do the same thing. It’s the expressions on their faces that do him in. He recognizes Arthur’s well, for the emotion behind it is the same as what Yorick feels every day, except Elia had never looked at him the way she’s looking at Arthur. Her cheeks are tinged a lovely pink as she places the circlet on her head, her smile almost obscene with what it promises.

He’d thought…well, he supposes it doesn’t matter what he’d thought.

He readies himself to return to Lemonwood after the tourney’s conclusion, saying his requisite goodbyes to everyone, but before he can leave, Elia pulls him aside. “You’ve been acting funny ever since the joust. Are you all right?” she asks. “Is it because of Arthur? I told him he oughtn’t show off so much.”

“I might have hit my head or something when I fell,” he fibs. “I don’t mean to be acting funny.”

_I’m in love with you_ , he wants to say. _Love me back, Elia, please._

“Oh, good,” she says in relief. “Not that you’re hurt, of course, I just…I care about you, Yorick. You’re my dearest friend.”

_Friend._ A single word, with a blow heavier than any warhammer.

“I…care about you, too.”

She embraces him tightly and wishes him safe travels as he falls in with the Dalt retinue, a gaping hollowness where his heart used to be.


	2. Baelor Hightower

His father thinks it too bold of the Martells to visit the Reach, to pursue his heir’s hand for their daughter. _What folly._ The Martells are historic, the only ruling house Aegon couldn’t conquer, with the blood of Princess Nymeria flowing through their veins, the blood of royalty. Just a few generations back they married into the Targaryens themselves. If they were good enough for kings, why not Leyton Hightower?

Still, though Baelor may be his family’s heir he is no more than that yet, and so must defer to his father in matters of betrothal—no matter his own opinions.

His parents are haughty when they greet the Dornish party, petty prejudices running deep, but Baelor greets them with courtesy, offering Princess Loreza and her consort his own chambers and Princess Elia and Prince Oberyn their best guest rooms. It warms him to the Princess, he thinks, for she at least engages him in genuine conversation, whereas it is naught but overly polite repartee between her and his parents.

By the fourth day, he is resolved to beseech his lord father for the engagement. Somehow without his knowledge, the princess had enchanted him beyond measure, his nights plagued by dreams of her beauty, his days filled with her sharp tongue and easy grace. Half the Hightower echoes him, and he catches her in turn talking amiably with any servant she passes, playing come-into-my-castle with his youngest siblings, and plucking wildflowers to thread through her hair.

It isn’t until the end of the first week that his father and the Princess drop their pretenses and cut to the reason for the visit. They, his mother, and the prince consort sequester themselves away, leaving him to entertain the rest of the Dornish at dinner. It is not hard; Princess Elia seems to have taken a liking to him, if not as much as he had to her, and Prince Oberyn’s japes are side-splittingly ribald. They sup on sumptuous fare, the cooks sparing no expense, but halfway through, his stomach begins to revolt.

With dread, he remembers the biscuits little Denyse had begged him to eat earlier that day. She’d helped make them, she’d said, and he’d dutifully eaten three of them. Appeasing his sister was all he’d cared about at the time; he’d forgotten all about how an excess of heavy breads doesn’t sit well with him.

_Not now, of all times_ , he bemoans. To his great misfortune, it is when the conversation lulls that it happens. Perhaps it would have gone considerately unmentioned—had Oberyn Martell not been sitting across the table. “Baelor Breakwind we should call you,” he chortles. He fills up Baelor’s goblet of wine and adds, “Oh, don’t make that face, it detracts from your handsomeness, ser.”

He doesn’t want to sneak a glance at Elia because he’s afraid of what he’ll see, but he does it anyway and wilts at the amused smile she poorly conceals behind her hand. He had meant to be the model host, proud and refined, not subject to the same rudenesses of other men. It hadn’t been on _purpose_ , but nevertheless, it _had_ happened.

Sensing his discomfort, Alerie steps in as hostess, her warmth leeching the awkwardness from the room. His cheeks are still aflame, though, and suddenly none of the rest of his food looks appetizing. He fills up on wine, a strong Dornish red brought out from the cellars for the occasion.

When at last dinner comes to an end, he excuses himself with every intent to submerge himself in a blazing hot bath and try to forget everything. Only before he can, Elia gently pulls him aside. “Would you take me up the tower?” she asks.

Embarrassment renewed, he mutters, “I’d have thought you’d want to be rid of me.”

“Why would I—wait, _that_?” She scoffs impatiently. “Ser Baelor, I grew up amongst two brothers and scores of men in Sunspear’s employ. I care not about what happened at dinner, and you shouldn’t either. Oberyn tries to make me laugh, that’s all. You are not the first man to whom he has given an unfortunate nickname on this trip, and I doubt you will be the last. In fact, yours is one of the tamer ones, so I’d count yourself lucky.”

Her words mollify him some. “Then that is what I shall do, my lady.”

“Excellent.” She links her arm up with his and asks again, “Shall we? Doran claims you can see all the way to the Wall, and I’d like to find that out for myself.”

* * *

It’s slow going since she has to stop to catch her breath every so often, but he doesn’t mind, for it gives him the opportunity to talk to her at length. She is winded when they reach the top of the stairs, which soon vanishes as soon as she goes to the railing and looks out at the whole of Oldtown. He stares at her profile, her full mouth parted in awe, the breeze caressing her hair away from her face, and for half a second his heart stutters.

“Gods be good,” she gasps. _I could say the same._ “Not even the Palestone Sword compares to this.”

“No, I should think not,” he says, coming up next to her and leaning against the rail. “This is five times that height.”

Her childlike wonder has him smiling. Most people who weren’t raised in the Hightower have a similar reaction, but many had also had taller structures than the _Palestone Sword_ to compare it to—and none were half so beautiful as she. The privacy they have up here emboldens him, and he takes her hand, using it to point out the various sights in the distance, each of which impresses her more than the last.

“I could look at this view forever,” she remarks, breathing in deeply the crisp air. The scents and sounds of the city far below them have disappeared, leaving them only with the gusting of wind and the heat of the dying sun.

“You can, princess.”

Instead of getting an agreement or a blush as he’d hoped, her face falls. “Oh. Yes, I suppose.” She picks at the peeling paint on the railing for a few minutes, and then looks back up at him. “Ser Baelor, you are a wonderful man, and I think I could be very content here with you. Even if this _is_ the Reach.”

He chuckles obligingly at her jibe. “But?”

She exhales heavily. “But I could never love you, for my heart belongs to another,” she says, so matter-of-fact, like no argument could be brooked against it. “My mother will make a match for me regardless, I fear, but I think it only fair to be honest with you.”

He supposes he should have known. Such a woman could have never gone unclaimed for this long. “Who is he?” he asks. “The heir of some great Dornish lord?”

“No,” Elia chuckles, “nothing of the sort. And I’m sure you wouldn’t like him.”

“I wouldn’t? Why?” She hesitates, clearly distrustful of sharing this particular information. “I’m very good at keeping secrets, you know. Ask Mal or Alerie if you don’t believe me.”

She sees something in him that sets her to softening. “Arthur Dayne,” she answers, his name carried away by the wind.

_Dayne_. The Hightowers are not quite so full of enmity towards the former Torrentine kings as the Tyrells of Highgarden, but even so, every Reach child grows up with brutish stories of the border lords—true or otherwise. But this Dayne, he knows. Or knows _of_ , rather. _Everyone_ does. The last Sword of the Morning had died some eighty years past, Dawn’s pale blade hidden from the world for generations, lying in wait for the next worthy wielder.

Until a few months prior, when word caught on like wildfire about the sixteen-year-old second son of Starfall. Baelor had seen him in tourneys, before any ancient swords or titles, and he remembers noting the man’s skill, even then. He’d seemed to prefer the joust, but to Baelor’s eye, the mêlée would have been the better place to show off his talent. Although, granted, mayhaps he’s the sort to not want others to know how he fights in case one day he must oppose them on the battlefield. He can respect that.

How exactly young Arthur Dayne had beguiled the beautiful princess in front of him he couldn’t begin to say, for she doesn’t seem the type to be seduced by martial skill alone, but it’s not his place to ask. “I hope he knows how lucky he is.”

Elia shoots him an impish grin. “Worry not, my lord. I never let him forget it.”

“Good, that’s…good.” He pauses, then asks, “If Ser Arthur is your lover, why are you endeavoring for a betrothal elsewhere? Forgive me, but aren’t the Dornish less traditional on espousals?”

“Mother isn’t,” Elia sighs. “Not for me, anyway. But if none of these work out, then perchance she’ll consider an option of my choosing.”

_So this was doomed from the start_ , Baelor realizes. _Even if by some miracle we_ were _to wed, I would never be more than a duty to her._

Still, it’s not _her_ fault, and anyway, it’s rare for highborns to find love of any sort; Baelor can’t well begrudge her for it. “Then may the gods bring you all that you want and more,” he says, drinking in the sight of her.

She rises up to her toes and kisses him full on the mouth, her dainty hands clenched in his doublet. She tastes of spice and salt, and he forgets himself, pulls her flush against him. He wishes he hadn’t, for it merely has him thinking of how wonderful it would be to be able to do this whenever he pleased, to kiss such a woman at any given moment. To sleep next to her night after night, her thick hair spilled across the pillow.

He’s not a simpleton, though. He knows the difference between a kiss and a _kiss_ , and this is definitely the former. “For what it’s worth,” she says once they break apart, “I wish you every happiness, Ser Baelor. I hope you find a woman worthy of your goodness.”

He nods cordially, but half of him wants to tell her he doesn’t care if she loves another, he wants to take her to wife anyway. Starfall is a thimble compared to the Hightower, and for all she knows, Arthur Dayne could turn sour over time: a boy of six-and-ten is not the same as a man of twenty-six or thirty or fifty. Being _nice_ isn’t a requisite to be the Sword of the Morning, after all. He’ll let her go for now, though. Maybe if the Princess refuses Ser Arthur outright…maybe it would be _him_ Elia chose and one day he _could_ call himself her husband.

It doesn’t go as planned. When all is said and done, he receives only a polite letter of acknowledgement from the Princess, and his and Elia’s attempts to maintain a correspondence peter out after a while. In the months to follow there is no news of Elia being betrothed—to him, or to anyone else.

A few years down the line, his father finds him a different candidate, one of Andal descent, not Rhoynish. She’s gracious and gentle, this Rhonda Rowan, and handsome besides. She is white as snow compared to Elia and very eager to please, as if she knows who came before her. A bit _too_ eager, in the beginning, but after the vows are exchanged and she makes her home in the Hightower, she becomes more enjoyable to be around. He’s not sure he’ll ever come to care for her beyond what he has to, but she’s a kind woman with a knack for politics, and he’ll make do.

Elia enters his thoughts less and less over time, until the proclamation that she is set to marry the crown prince, and it is not jealousy he feels but sympathy. He’d known something had changed between her and Ser Arthur, given that shortly after Elia returned to Sunspear it was announced he would succeed the deceased Ser Roland Hunter in the Kingsguard, but he can picture with perfect clarity her smile when she’d spoken of him. And it all makes Baelor wonder whether Prince Rhaegar would be enough for her—for what could the bookish prince offer that she hadn’t already tasted from the dashing Sword of the Morning?

He and Rhonda travel to the capital for the wedding, and though Elia is thoroughly welcoming, she hardly has time for more than a dance and a quick conversation before she’s swept elsewhere. She doesn’t seem _miserable_ , exactly, so he decides not to be the one to make her so with his concerns. At Harrenhal, he itches with the urge to sink his fist into Prince Rhaegar’s jaw, repeatedly, for the public humiliation the man had wrought on his wife, and it is only by virtue of Alerie’s calming words that he refrains from doing exactly that.

It would be the last time he saw either of them; not that he knew it then.

Less than a year hence, Prince Rhaegar abducts the Stark girl, war tears the realm apart, and King’s Landing is chewed up and spit out by Tywin Lannister’s men. The fates of Elia and her babes spread to every corner of the realm, and it’s so grisly, so horrifically _unnecessary_ , that he goes to the very top of the Hightower where she’d once stood and screams until his throat bleeds.


	3. Jaime Lannister

He’s not told much about the Dornish people coming to pay Casterly Rock a visit, and what he _is_ told is from Uncle Kevan, not his father. He’s used to that, though. He could count on two hands how often he’s seen his father since Mother passed.

He has to be personable, his uncle says, for these are not normal Dornishmen like the ones the songs poke fun at, these are the Martells of Sunspear. Jaime knows what that means. While at eight he’s less than interested in memorizing houses, he knows that one, of the Rhoynish princess’s harrowing voyage and the mass marriage of her refugees to Dorne.

He discusses it with Cersei later, expressing how they, the Lannisters, must be lucky to have such esteemed company visit them, but she does not share his sentiments. “They’re not _really_ royalty,” she says, rolling her eyes. “They’re just called that because King Baelor didn’t want another war and King Daeron had Dornishmen whispering in his ear. They shouldn’t even be lords or ladies. They got titles for their insolence where Harren the Black was roasted alive, and then there’s what Father did to the Reynes of Castamere.”

“I know that.” Jaime’s not fond of being patronized. He doesn’t want to argue with his sister—that never goes well—but he’s not entirely sure he agrees with her. “Mother was friends with the Princess.”

“Mother’s dead,” Cersei snaps.

She is. She’s been dead for months now, and Jaime’s already starting to forget what she looked like. “Still,” he mumbles. “We should be nice like Uncle Kevan said. The Martells aren’t the reason Mother died.”

“No, our _brother_ is.” Her voice, usually so lyrical, is filled with nothing but contempt when she speaks of Tyrion. He doesn’t understand that, either. Tyrion’s just a baby, it’s not _his_ fault Mother died, not really. It’s not _his_ fault he’s a dwarf. Cersei’s mouth stretches into that smirk, the one that sets him to unease. “I’ll show him to them. Mayhaps that will stop them with this silly betrothal business.”

“Betrothal?”

Cersei scoffs. “You haven’t heard? Why else do you think they’d come all the way here? They’re angling to saddle you with that sickly Elia, or mayhaps me with Oberyn. As if Father would let me go to a _second_ son.”

He _hadn’t_ heard, incidentally. But then, Cersei had always been the one with the ear for gossip, not him. _Marriage._ It’s such an abstract concept that he has trouble envisioning it. What if he doesn’t like this Princess Elia? Cersei certainly thinks poorly of her. His parents had had a loving marriage, but Aunt Genna doesn’t—what if his would be as bad as hers? _Although Princess Elia isn’t a Frey, so that’s something._

They arrive in a sunburst of reds and yellows and oranges, looking so out of place that for a second Jaime wonders if they’re lost. If he had thought Father would be there to greet them, he was wrong. Princess Loreza exchanges mutual sorrows about Mother’s death with Uncle Kevan, then moves on to introducing herself to Cersei and Jaime. Her accent is strange and her posture intimidating, but he does his best to put on a good image. Cersei convinces her she’s perfectly demure, hiding her condescension well.

Uncle Kevan had impressed upon him the necessity not to call Prince Consort Trystane _my lord_ or _the Princess’s husband_ , for while he is both, to address him as such would be interpreted a slight. Jaime hasn’t met a _consort_ before, but he likes this one. He ruffles Jaime’s hair out of the painstakingly styled arrangement into which it had been wrangled, and rests his hand on the curve of the Princess’s hip like Father used to do with Mother. He thinks that’s nice.

Prince Oberyn follows, suspicion in his endless black eyes, and then Princess Elia. Her features are nearly identical to her brother’s, only instead of suspicion, there is warmth. Mischief. She dips in a low curtsey and tells him he looks very lordly in his red-and-gold raiments. She’s pretty on top of all that, and regal besides.

Princess Loreza is not happy when Uncle Kevan informs her that Father is indisposed, but she has no choice but to accept it. Prince Oberyn asks Cersei about Tyrion, and she coyly replies, “Soon. I’ll bring you to him soon.”

“Soon” turns out to be on the penultimate day of the Martells’ visit, when Father finally consents to speak to Princess Loreza. The four of them go to the nursery, and immediately Prince Oberyn is openly disappointed. Elia gasps, fawning over Tyrion as though he’s the most darling infant in the realm. Were Jaime to propose Tyrion go back to Sunspear with them, he wouldn’t be surprised if she said yes.

“No one expected the monster to live this long,” says Cersei. “He’ll die soon, you can count on that.”

“He seems a poor sort of monster,” comments Prince Oberyn, peering at Tyrion in search of flaws.

“Oh, he’s no monster,” Elia coos, stroking his cheek. Tyrion gurgles happily at the attention.

“He killed our mother,” Cersei snarls. Incensed at the Martells’ lack of reaction, she throws off the blanket, pulls down the cloth covering his privates, and pinches his member, hard. Tyrion squeals and wails, the sound echoing loud as a war horn.

“ _Don’t!_ ” Elia shrieks. “Stop it!”

She doesn’t, so Jaime grabs her wrist. “Leave him be, you’re hurting him.”

Taken aback at his objection, Cersei lets go of the baby and strides out of the nursery with a derisive swish of her skirts. Elia replaces the cloth and picks up Tyrion from the cradle. After a few minutes of her soothing murmurs, he quiets, his nose running and his cheeks red.

“There now,” she says. “You’re all right, little one. I’m sure Lady Cersei didn’t mean it.”

_Yes_ , Jaime thinks, _she did._

Once Tyrion tires himself out, she places him down gently. “Your brother is a delight,” she says. “He will need your kindness, Jaime. Do not forsake him.”

The way she implores him, her earnest expression, he can conceive of no other reply. “I won’t, princess.”

_Ours wouldn’t be like Aunt Genna’s marriage. Not with her._

* * *

The second time he meets her, he’s thirteen years old and exhilarated, for he’d just handily trounced every opponent in his squires’ mêlée, and the knight who ultimately unseated him in the joust had, for a second, been scared that Jaime might actually win.

So when she comes to the tent to congratulate him, he’s caught off-guard, for more reasons than one. For all that the stories—and Cersei—had reminded him about Elia Martell’s health, the most poignant thing Jaime remembers is her beauty. That hasn’t changed.

Although hers is different than Cersei’s, which stops him in his tracks each time he gazes upon her, she is no less stunning. She is a slip of a thing and drawn, but her skin is a smooth, glowing russet, her long hair thick and lustrous, her black eyes as sharp as her brother’s.

She toys with him, dropping innuendoes that have him floundering until she reveals it had all been in jest, and her resulting giggling is of pleasant resonance, her dimpled grin breathtaking. She gives him one of her yellow ribbons as a favor, ties it on his wrist with nimble fingers and steals a kiss. Her lips are pliant and soft, and when she pulls away, he’s disheartened by the brevity.

Her confidence is intoxicating. She’d clearly had experience with men, for no innocent maiden would be that practiced, and she might even have _lain_ with some as well. Perhaps, he ponders, her homeland has the right idea of letting its ladies have more freedoms. Certainly _he_ enjoys Cersei more and more the longer they’re together; for a while it had been clumsy and awkward, and even as short as Elia’s kiss was, _that_ hadn’t felt clumsy or awkward at all. She had been kissed often and by someone who knew how, and he’s not about to protest.

Nine months later they are again thrust together, this time at her wedding to the dragon prince. Between her resplendent gown, the golden crown of yellow sapphires on her head, and her hair that slowly comes undone as the night progresses, she shines the brightest of all.

She dances with her brothers, with her new husband, with the Kingsguard, with drunken Robert Baratheon whose advances she diverts so deftly it’s only after their dance that the storm lord works out what had happened, with lords high and low from around the realm. Without fail, she captivates them all, coaxes geniality from even the surliest of men. If her health is dwindling or if the constant dancing is painful, she shows no signs.

She dances with him as well, tickled that he’d worn the ribbon she once gave him, and there’s something about her that enchants him, something far beyond her winsome exterior. A vibrancy within that transcends any frailty. And it is not illness he sees when he twirls her, nor weakness when she tilts her head back in laughter at a joke he makes.

Cersei sulks the night away muttering snide comments, but Jaime can countenance none of them. To his eye, Elia embodies everything a princess should be, and he decides that Rhaegar is a fortunate man indeed to be married to her. Jaime has no idea which woman he will be forced to wed, but for just a moment, he toes the line of envy.

After the festivities subside, Cersei corners him, irked, and asks him if he’s smitten with the new future queen, for he’d stared at her openly enough; though she stalks off soon after, it has him considering. It is not what he feels for Cersei, and he hardly knows her, but he thinks that had his mother’s plans gone through and _he_ married her instead of Prince Rhaegar, she would have been a very easy woman to fall in love with.

It is a devastating blow when his father whisks Cersei to Casterly Rock so soon after Ser Gerold drapes the ivory cloak over his shoulders. It strands him by himself with six new brothers in white, every one of them dedicated to a fault. But then Elia kisses his cheek, confides in him her secrets, and he decides there are much worse fates than serving her until the end of his days—even if he also has to guard a mad king and a miserable queen to do it.

It doesn’t last, of course, and the nightmares plague him for years afterwards. In them, each time Elia asks, _Why, Jaime? Why didn’t you protect us? We needed you_ , and each time Jaime weeps, _He was going to burn the whole city, half a million people, and I couldn’t be in two places at once. Please forgive me, Elia, please._

She does, every time, nods and kisses his forehead in absolution, but when Jaime wakes, all the shadows offer him are memories of sweet Rhaenys calling him Uncle Jaime as she begged for a ride on his shoulders, Aegon’s delighted babbling, and Elia’s soft smiles.

Then, nearly two decades after their blood wins Robert’s crown, he finds himself on his knees with a sword at his throat. “Swear that you will compel your brother to honor his pledge to return my daughters safe and unharmed. Swear it on your honor as a knight, on your honor as a Lannister, on your honor as a sworn brother of the Kingsguard,” says Catelyn Stark, hard as Valyrian steel.

Her daughters could not be more dissimilar, Sansa light where Rhaenys was dark, Arya with hair of mud to Aegon’s silver, but all the same, he replies, “On my honor, such as it is, I so swear.”

He knows he’ll end up in the seven hells for all the wrongs he’s done, and yet, rendered feeble as a babe in Riverrun’s dank cell with the flat of the wench’s blade on his shoulder, he thinks maybe the gods have given him a second chance.

_I will not save your children because I value my life, Lady Stark. I will save them because I couldn’t save hers._


	4. Larra Blackmont

_Help me cripple the Lannisters._

That’s all the note says, and Larra’s been mulling over it for a week now. She’d have known it was from the prince even without the sun-and-spear seal; no one in all the realm hates the Lannisters half as much as Oberyn Martell. She doesn’t know exactly what he means—what could _she_ possibly do?—but it doesn’t matter. He could ask her to render her life forfeit and she’d do it in a heartbeat if it meant she could take a pride of lions down with her.

There’s a nag of guilt at the thought, for it would mean leaving her children without a mother, but Jynessa’s newly sixteen, a woman grown, Perros is nearly thirteen and squiring in Wyl, and at Prince Doran’s request her three youngest are happily playing in the Water Gardens. They’d have their father as well, oafish fool that he is, their grandfather, and their aunts and cousins. They’d be all right.

Her mind made up, she grabs a fresh sheet of parchment and writes three short words:

_I am yours._

She discovers he’d chosen her for her discretion, knowing full well her skill at keeping secrets. While Oberyn is off provoking the Lannisters, Ellaria is making every Kingslander rethink their distaste of Dornishwomen, and the rest of the retinue is generally being a nuisance, Larra wiles the guards away from the armory, picks the lock, and slips inside with a glass bottle tucked in her hand. The duel is scheduled for the following day, but there would be even less of a window of opportunity then as there is now.

Quiet as a snake, she dribbles Oberyn’s specially concocted poison onto the tip of his spear, turning it so as to let the liquid seep into every pore. It dries black, perfectly visible to others; but then, that’s Oberyn’s way. Let the Lannisters grind their teeth over how he’d managed to poison his spear without anyone noticing.

He’d chosen her well. Between Dragonstone and the Red Keep, she’d spent almost three years in the crownlands in her youth, and she’d learned long ago how to use these northerners’ biases against them. Dornishwoman or no, not a soul would suspect a lady of Larra’s standing to be so devious. Being from the mountains adds to the guise, for her lighter skin, honey-brown hair, and green eyes make it easy to trick them into thinking she’s one of them.

She’s not. The blood of the Rhoynar flows through her veins as surely as it did through Princess Nymeria’s. As it does through Oberyn’s. As it did through his sister’s.

She replaces the spear in its holding, flits back outside, and thinks, _This is for you, Elia. Always for you._

* * *

The letter comes a month after the announcement of a tourney Lord Baratheon will hold in memory of his parents. Even after her sisters assure her she read the note correctly, she can’t believe it. _She_ is being chosen by the Princess of Dorne as one of her daughter’s ladies-in-waiting? She’d have thought girls from closer to Sunspear would have that honor. After all, Ashara Dayne is already there to represent the mountain houses; what use would Princess Elia have for a Blackmont?

Nevertheless, she immediately sends her acceptance, and in no time at all her chests are filled and she’s riding south. She boards a ship at Starfall, and for the ten days of their passage, she is a restless bundle of nerves. Ser Manfrey Martell, the castellan, is the one to greet her at the port, not any of the royals, but the arrival is enough to overcome that disappointment.

_Princess Nymeria walked these sands_ , she marvels. _Mors Martell, Harwin Uller, Ser Davos Dayne, they were all here. And now I am, too._

It isn’t until supper that night that she meets them all: Princess Loreza, Prince Doran, Prince Oberyn, and, most strikingly of all, Princess Elia. Larra had known for a while that there was a reason she’d never liked any of her suitors, and if there were any doubt, that would be eliminated when she sees her. Her stomach is filled with butterflies, and her cheeks flushed by what she claims is the heat.

She’s not the only new lady-in-waiting. Other than Lady Ashara, there is Lady Hellyne Qorgyle, Lady Nymella Toland, and Elia’s cousin, Lady Divya Manwoody. She carefully scrutinizes the others to see if any of them are smitten as well, but none are. Hellyne is starstruck, but that’s not the same thing; Nymella looks confused as to why she’s there, something Larra can understand; Divya holds only familial affection; and Ashara…well, Ashara is her confidante, her sister in all but blood, but nothing beyond that.

Larra’s not stupid, she knows the chances of Elia liking her as more than a friend are less than slim, but then, she hasn’t seen the princess looking at any boys either. She thinks Prince Oberyn has caught on, though he hasn’t said a word, and that’s almost enough to confirm in her mind the hearsay that he lies with women _and_ men. If there were anyone to not judge her for her preferences, it would be him.

In hindsight, she should have realized the tourney at Storm’s End wasn’t just a tourney, but also an opportunity for the announcement of Elia’s betrothal. She should have realized that _of course_ the future king would be the match Princess Loreza orchestrated, given that the previous betrothal trip that included a _Hightower_ and a _Lannister_ didn’t amount to anything.

She vaguely notices at the tourney that Elia can’t stop glowering at the Kingsguard Ser Arthur Dayne for reasons she can’t suss out. Yet when they arrive in the Red Keep, Larra discovers that glare has turned into something else entirely: affection. Affection that gives her a distinctly sinking feeling. What could have caused the change from that hostility she’d seen at the tourney to… _this_ , she couldn’t possibly begin to guess.

Of the admiration she can at least make sense, for his handsomeness is as well-known as his star-wrought sword. The vapid, blushing servant girls make it no secret what they think of the lilting accent he’d never managed to lose. One of Larra’s favorite hobbies is setting them into a scowl when she points out his only mistress is duty, and that they’d have a better chance romancing a snark.

But well-founded or not, it’s painful to watch Elia be so clearly smitten with him— _how_ Prince Rhaegar doesn’t see it, she’ll never fathom—to watch as her attention is constantly caught by his movements, how a private smile graces her lips when he walks into a room. It doesn’t help matters that he seems as mesmerized as Larra herself, those vivid violet eyes filled with unfettered lust wholly unbecoming of a Kingsguard. Prince Lewyn, at least, seems to be on her side, if his constant exasperation is anything to go by.

The only thing that keeps her from outright disdain is that they’ve never acted on anything, so far as she can tell, keeping themselves to looks and looks alone. That, and Ser Arthur’s ironclad vows.

She has it in her mind to tell Elia how she feels, finally, after the scare that follows Princess Rhaenys’s birth. She knows nothing could ever come of it, but keeping it closeted is eating her up inside. While Elia recovers, Larra contents herself with doting on the baby, who is easy to think of as only hers and not Rhaegar’s, for she bears little similarity to him. Rhaenys’s dark purple eyes always strike a niggling feeling in the back of her mind, though Larra can’t come up with an explanation.

Shortly after the birth, Ser Arthur returns from his latest attempt to charm the kingswood smallfolk into giving up the Brotherhood, and she catches him in the nursery one evening. It wouldn’t be odd—the entire castle already adores Rhaenys, guards included, and it’s hardly unusual for someone to be spending time in there—except that it hits her then, the sheer _resemblance_.

And those eyes…Larra had thought them of a shade as Prince Rhaegar’s, but no, that’s not quite right. There are no traces of blue like there are in the prince’s and queen’s, nor of lilac like the king’s.

Just pure, deep violet. _Dayne_ violet.

It makes her stomach churn, the realization. Any hope of it being some kind of coincidence vanishes when she studies Ser Arthur’s expression as he gazes down at the baby. He looks at her like Elia does, like Larra’s own father looks at her and her sisters: the pure, unconditional love of a parent for their child.

She doesn’t know how she missed it, when or where or _how_ he and Elia had lain together, but needless to say it’s far too late for her to prevent it. As she dashes away from the nursery, the enormity of this newfound knowledge dawns on her.

_Treason_. There’s no other word for it. Not only had Elia committed adultery with the— _alleged_ —most chivalrous knight in the realm, but she’d birthed his child, passed her off as trueborn with no apparent care of repercussion.

Although what Larra now knows can’t be explicitly proven, if she presents the possibility to Prince Rhaegar, he would see instantly what she does. He may not have the color acuity she does, but all Larra would need to do is wait a few years until Rhaenys’s features grew more distinct, when she would show signs of being awfully reminiscent of his closest friend. Larra would receive a reward for her information, and whatever fondness the prince holds for either Ser Arthur or Elia wouldn’t matter, they’d both be punished to the severest extent. Execution, or exile.

Months pass, and Larra watches as Rhaenys slowly comes to look more and more like a Dayne, happens upon Ser Arthur countless more times in the nursery with the child in his arms and tenderness in his gaze. It would be _so easy_ to ruin his life, to use her own heartbreak to force others to feel what she does. A few short words, maybe some hand-wringing for show, and the Sword of the Morning would be summarily out of the way.

Except he would be taking Elia with him, and _that_ Larra can’t abide. The very thought of her left to rot in the black cells—or, worse, _hanged_ —has her retching. No, she won’t say anything. _Can’t_ say anything. Regardless of how much it hurts to every day look upon Ser Arthur Dayne’s bastard daughter trussed up as a Targaryen, ultimately the girl is Elia’s, too, and Larra decides that’s enough. Hadn’t she been happy for that very fact when she thought the babe was trueborn? Hadn’t she pretended Prince Rhaegar had nothing to do with Rhaenys? Mayhaps she can learn to do the same once again.

She wrestles with the knowledge for three years, until everything falls apart and they all die within a fortnight of one another. Elia, Rhaenys, Arthur, even poor Aegon, and what’s the _point_? She’d wished Arthur gone, and he is—with unthinkable collateral. Elia’s uncle is slaughtered alongside her husband on the Trident, Arthur’s sister throws herself into the sea, and Larra despairs, _I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. This isn’t what I wanted._

She promises to take Elia’s secret to the grave and tries to pretend the gods aren’t castigating her for how spiteful she’d once been. The wound festers and festers and festers until it nearly drives her mad, and then— _and then—_ the letter comes

_Help me cripple the Lannisters_

and for the first time in sixteen years, Larra Blackmont laughs.


	5. Rhaegar Targaryen

He doesn’t know what to expect from her, in truth. Her delicate health is the worst kept secret in Westeros, but there are no rumors about her personality, whether she’s kind or curt, whether her preferences lie in hawking or embroidery, whether she can sit a horse or heft a spear. No, nothing of her character, only her frailty. His mother had tried to put him at ease, but it rang hollow. The Princess of Dorne had been her lady-in-waiting once upon a time, and she’d even briefly known Elia and Oberyn when they came to King’s Landing as toddlers to escape the Stepstones threat during the war.

Only his mother hadn’t seen any of them since Rhaegar was a babe in arms, so gossip is all he has to go on. He himself had met Oberyn here and there at various tourneys, and the Red Viper had always been vicious in his repartee but courteous enough otherwise, and a fearsome opponent in the joust. He was ferociously protective of his sister, anyone could see that, but at the time, Rhaegar hadn’t needed to know anything about her, so he’d never asked.

He tries Arthur, knowing that his oldest and dearest friend had squired in Sunspear and remained there until he donned the white cloak at seventeen. By virtue of proximity alone, Rhaegar figured Arthur would have been at least nominal acquaintances with her. Except when he broaches the question, Arthur turns even more taciturn than usual and offers nothing Rhaegar couldn’t have guessed for himself.

Which leaves Prince Lewyn, the newest member of the Kingsguard and already one of its most consummate warriors. Rhaegar doesn’t know him especially well, but he’d knighted Arthur and is uncle to Oberyn, so Rhaegar suspects there’s quite a bit more behind the Dornishman’s show of perfect manners. As it happens, Prince Lewyn sings Elia’s praises, extolling her every virtue and, he notes, not once mentioning her health. It’s Prince Lewyn’s testimony that allays the dragon’s share of his trepidation.

The king had balked, of course, until Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana returned unsuccessful and dead from their voyage to Essos, and there was no other passable choice in his mind. Certainly not after he had summarily refused Lord Tywin’s suggestion of Lady Cersei as a bride. Rhaegar was no particular fan of the Lannisters, but Lady Cersei _did_ know how to navigate court, and her family’s prestige and wealth would have been an asset.

Nevertheless, the match was struck and Rhaegar met her nine months before they were due to be wed, at Lord Robert’s tourney. She was genial, but seemed irked about something the whole duration, and altogether was not what Prince Lewyn described.

But then she comes to King’s Landing a month before their wedding, and over time he does begin to see it. He sees that her politesse is her armor, her cleverness her sword, and beneath all the requisite etiquette, in her eyes there lingers astute intelligence. She knows how to play the game, and would bow to no courtier.

The insinuations follow her to Dragonstone, snide insults about her narrow hips and how back in Sunspear she would sometimes be laid up in bed for weeks at a time, but try as he might, Rhaegar can never find the source. It bothers her, he knows; it’s on full display in her tight smile, the strained lines by her eyes, the subtle straightening of her back. She shoulders the burden herself, refusing to accept any reassurances despite the fact that he means them.

It seems irrelevant that she’s not as robust as other maidens, for it is everything _else_ she has that interests him. When the time is ripe for him to depose his father, he’ll need a queen who can be his equal, his counsel, like King Daeron and Queen Mariah of old, and her mettle promises her to be exactly that. While the maester had said pregnancies would require careful monitoring, he hadn’t said she _couldn’t_ bear children. As far as he’s concerned, having a wife who falls ill on regular occasion is an acceptable loss.

It strikes him one day that she stirs something within him. He’d never had much interest in women (or men, for that matter), not in the way the stable boys and randy knights did. The _prophecy_ interested him, knowledge interested him, learning what made or broke kings interested him. His body had done all the work on his wedding night, fortunately, and a moon’s turn later the maester determined Elia was with child.

As the months pass, as her stomach swells with a little boy or girl, he finds that her brightness puts the sun to shame, that he seeks to make her happy, that between her beauty and her fire, he’s often _wanted_ her, as a husband wants a wife. Summerhall has been a pall over his existence from birth, yet the goodness inside of her somehow eases his melancholy. He doesn’t think it’s love, exactly, not like he’s read about, but no longer does his marriage feel like such a chore. No longer does he fear that the stiff propriety between them will last forever. He would not be his father, and she would not be his mother.

He prays until his knees go numb when Rhaenys is born, the babe healthy but Elia’s life squarely at the whims of the gods. He doesn’t know which one to pray to so he prays to all seven, even stumbles into the foreboding godswood to try his luck there. A week after the birth she finally wakes for good, exhausted but _alive_. She has the same look on her face as he did when she sees the child, for there is not a speck of Targaryen in her. Not in her olive skin or amber eyes or black hair or dimpled cheeks—but she has ten fingers, ten toes, and an ample set of lungs, and that’s all he cares about. Whatever his father’s disparagement, he loves every inch of her.

And watching Elia feed her at her own breast, her level of tranquility in doing so, it gives him that same feeling as before: a quickening of his heart and a coiling low in his belly. He even endures a trip to Dorne to present Rhaenys to the Martells, though he burns horrifically in the ruthless heat and the food flavored with dragon peppers and snake venom sears his tongue. She loses her pallor while they’re there, her sleep is restful. For those reasons alone, he extends what was supposed to be a sojourn of three weeks to three months.

The husband in him feels guilty when she tells him she is pregnant again, for it has been scarcely more than half a year since Rhaenys was born; the man who’d read that ancient scroll is elated. Elia carries a boy, he _knows_ it, and the birth would not only bring him with only one head of the dragon remaining, but provide him an heir in the meanwhile. The Long Night would not come for years yet, and he’s well-aware his father yearns for any excuse to name Viserys as his successor. A son he could mold into his own creature, not the disappointment he has in his eldest.

Retrospect is a cruel mistress, and if he had the chance to do things over again, it would be Harrenhal he started with. He hadn’t honestly intended his awarding the crown of winter roses to Lyanna Stark as a slight. The prospect hadn’t even occurred to him until Elia bluntly pointed it out. He wanted to reward the wolf maid for her valor and justice, and the crown would be the only honor she could receive. It had begun everything, inserted Lyanna into his awareness, but it wasn’t a matter of lust.

After that, nothing is the same. Where Elia had before looked upon him with fondness, now she is colder than the Wall. Unfailingly polite, but no longer does he see her laugh, no longer does she jape with him. Meals are glacial affairs. It doesn’t help matters any that her entire retinue is Dornish, every one of whom regards him with scorn.

The loss he feels most acutely is Arthur, who becomes less friend and more stoic Kingsguard. Over the years, it had been easy to forget Arthur was Dornish, even with the accent that marked him as different and the distinctive ancestral sword he carried. Lewyn is better at concealing his consternation, but not good enough. Rhaegar would wonder later whether it was this icy reception from every Dornishman and -woman that ultimately nudged him towards Lyanna, or whether destiny would ensure the same end was reached no matter the path.

It is the Stranger alone he prays to when Aegon is born, for Elia’s condition declines so rapidly no other god could save her. Just as he’d anticipated, it is a boy the maester places into his arms, a boy as opposite in appearance to Rhaenys as the sun from the moon. Aside from the dimples in his cheeks and the shape of his nose, he is Rhaegar in miniature, with the same silver-blond hair and indigo eyes. His prince that was promised.

For a few blessed moments, he is optimistic. He has two healthy children, two of his needed three, and Elia is alive. She wouldn’t be wroth with him _forever_ ; he could piece things back together. Strictly speaking, a happy marriage isn’t part of the prophecy, but he wants what his parents never had, he wants _stability_.

And then the maester approaches him after a fresh examination of Elia, grave as a Silent Sister.

“The babe was twisted in the womb, so I had to use an experimental procedure from the Citadel in order to extract him,” he explains. “I had to cut her open.”

He is glad he hadn’t known _that_ until now. He’d have in no uncertain terms agreed to such a risk otherwise. “But she survived. She’s on the mend, isn’t she?”

“Aye, she’s a fighter. But there is swelling and scarring, I’m afraid, from Princess Rhaenys’s troublesome birth and this operation. Conceiving again would be…difficult. And dangerous besides. If the gods saw fit to grant you another child, I fear the princess would not survive the delivery.” The maester must see the devastation in his expression, for he hastily adds, “But the babe is perfectly well, as is his sister. I am of the opinion there is no need for Princess Elia to return to the birthing bed, even if she were able.”

_No, you wouldn’t see the need, I suppose._ He’s kept the prophecy under wraps, sharing his belief in it only with Arthur and Elia herself, plus Uncle Aemon on the Wall. “Thank you for your assessment. May I see her?”

“Yes, she is awake. Though she is in a fragile state—please take care.”

He does. He tells her the name he settled on, and when she asks him to play something, he answers her honestly. “He has a song. He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire.” She is within reach, but it is as if she has slid behind a watery veil, her face obscured by what he knows is his Visenya. “There must be one more. The dragon must have three heads.”

She begins to yell at him, but he can’t hear what she’s saying, so he just reiterates, “There has to be another,” and plucks out a tune on the silver strings of his harp. It is one he hasn’t played before, an improvisation that speaks of sorrow. _I could not play a happy melody if I tried_ , he muses. _I don’t have it in me._

It is when she threatens to bar him from seeing their son that he snaps out of his fugue and sets her straight on that account. She concedes, if only to follow up with a threat of barring him to see _her_.

In a kind of desperation she paints him a pretty picture, one in which it can just be the four of them, his prophecy set aside, and for an instant he wonders whether that could really be the case. Maybe she’s right, maybe he _did_ misread the scroll again. Maybe there only needs to be two heads after all, and he could content himself with watching Rhaenys and Aegon have the idyllic childhood he’d always wished for. But then a chill slides down his spine, a harbinger of the Long Night foretold, and all he can do is walk out the door.

What hadn’t already unraveled does so quickly thereafter. Lyanna Stark replies to his letter, Ser Oswell is set to meet them in the Prince’s Pass, and Arthur agrees to accompany him to the riverlands, albeit with a brooding, insolent resentment that Rhaegar tries to ignore. The wolf girl contrasts in every way to Elia, brash where his wife is subtle, fair where she is golden, and while Lyanna is the one he needs to mother his Visenya, he contemplates how she would comport herself at court. The smallfolk might appreciate one who spoke her mind, but to what extent? As much as Rhaegar despises many aspects of politics, most of those are necessary evils. Lyanna would have to conform, and he doesn’t know that she could without breaking first.

_But she’d have to, wouldn’t she?_ He’s not a dullard, he knows Elia would not forgive him for this. For all his desires to have a better marriage than his parents, he has a wife that despises him. What would it take to placate her? The solution dawns on him in a trice: 

_Dorne_.

She’d withstood Dragonstone and King’s Landing, but she hadn’t enjoyed it. The cold seeped deep into her bones, the food was bland, the fashions too restrictive. _I could grant her leave to return to Dorne, but then what? She wouldn’t consent to separating from both of our children. A compromise, mayhaps…but if Aegon were to stay here as my heir, in return I’d have to let her take Rhaenys, my little princess…_

But that’s a quandary for another day.

The stars in Lyanna’s eyes fade once her womb quickens, once she’s apprised of his motives that have nothing to do with saving her from an unpleasant betrothal. On more than one occasion, he sees the judgment in Ser Oswell, but at least he is cordial; that’s more than he can say for Arthur, who had long since erected a wall between them. Rhaegar does not question his loyalty, not for a single second, but he fears he may have ruined the friendship that had been forged half a lifetime ago.

_Maybe I did err_ , he ponders in the dead of night. _Maybe I could have done this differently. I never wanted Brandon or Lord Rickard to die, I never wanted this upheaval._

But the gods cast him down anyway, good intentions or no. He goes to war because it is necessary, because he was the impetus behind it. He says goodbye to his family, hugs Rhaenys so tightly she protests, and promises young Jaime Lannister that changes will be made once Robert Baratheon is dealt with.

That doesn’t come to pass. He’d misjudged the storm lord’s wrath like he’d misjudged so much else, and his sword rises too slowly to parry the blow. He’s knocked off his destrier into the river, unbearable agony rippling through his chest, and he realizes that he’s going to die. There won’t be any changes made, there won’t be any sending Elia back to Dorne, there won’t be any opportunity to know his third child. Nor, really, his eldest two.

Lyanna flashes before his eyes—Lyanna from _before_ , from when she looked at him in awe, not enmity—yet it is neither she nor the baby girl she carries that he thinks of at the end. He thinks of dark hair and darker eyes, of grace, of strength, and he thinks it such a sweet irony that of everyone who pitied her, it is she who will outlive them all.

It is her name he says with his last breath, an apology that’s far too late.


	6. Arthur Dayne

It’s been an unseasonably hot week, simmering everyone’s blood and causing the men to eschew shirts, the women to wear only their thinnest of dresses in attempts to alleviate the sun’s rays. In his case, Arthur sits beneath the shade of a blood orange tree, watching children and adults alike frolic in the pools of the Water Gardens.

His sister is among them, somewhere, but all he has eyes for is the princess. The relentless heat labors her breathing, causing her to sit rather than rollick around with the others, but it diminishes her spirit not at all. Arthur can’t help the smile that creeps onto his face when she laughs, when she gives a surprised shout as a gaggle of children splash her head to toe. Water clings to her eyelashes and her drenched hair sends rivulets down her neck, between her breasts, and lower. He notices the dusky outline of her nipples beneath the wet, flimsy fabric of her dress, and has half a mind to ravish her right here and now, never mind who sees.

“You’re staring.”

For one terrifying moment, Arthur thinks it’s Princess Loreza, and nearly jumps out of his skin. But when he looks over, it’s Oberyn he sees, mimicking his mother’s voice to perfection. “I hate it when you do that.”

“Why do you think I do it?” Oberyn drops his voice back into its normal timbre and repeats, “You’re staring.”

“There’s much to stare at.” Most brothers would demand his head for taking their sister for a lover, but Oberyn had always been oddly encouraging.

The youngest Martell sits beside him and props his feet up on a stool. “Have you told her yet?”

“Told who?”

“The Whore of Planky Town. Who do you _think_?” Arthur shrugs noncommittally, and without warning Oberyn punches him in the shoulder. “Gods, it’s a miracle she _doesn’t_ know then. All the rest of Dorne does.”

“Not _all_ of Dorne, surely.”

“Near enough.” Oberyn is quiet for a moment—a rarity in and of itself—and then continues more seriously, “You should, though.”

That’s rather easy for him to say. As far as Arthur’s concerned, that would risk too much, particularly since he doubts she reciprocates—nothing would again be the same once he spoke truth. And he _very much_ likes things the way they are. “Maybe one day.”

“Fine. Suffer. But you’re not getting any sympathy from me when she chooses someone else to occupy her time with who’s not such a craven.”

He leaves before Arthur can retort, venturing into the water and seeking out one of the serving girls. She’s pretty, Arthur will give her that, but he’ll gladly leave her to Oberyn. He’s bewitched by another, and anyone else pales in comparison.

Eventually, the sun begins to set and the children are ushered away by their mothers. As they disperse, he notices an obvious lack of both Oberyn and the serving girl, and lets out a groan. The prince has always taken the Dornish stereotype to heart, with great success. _As long as everyone already thinks we’re wanton, why shouldn’t we be?_ was a response he was fond of using every time he was found in another’s bed. Princess Loreza had eventually learned to disregard it after many and more shouting matches with her son, so long as Doran continued to be the model heir and Elia remained untouched.

He shifts uncomfortably at that notion. He knows that the Princess is aware of Elia and him to an extent, but in no way aware of how far they’d gone, or else he would have been long since shipped back to Starfall in disgrace. That, or gelded. Elia had been the one who initiated the escalation in the first place, but he doesn’t think the Princess would appreciate the difference. Whatever the impetus behind it, all she would care about is that her only daughter had given her maidenhead many times over to Prince Lewyn’s presumptuous protégé.

He supposes it’s a minor miracle he hasn’t yet gotten her with child. He’d been adamant the first number of times they’d lain together that he not spend himself inside her, but it hadn’t taken long to abandon that practice. Initially, it had been merely an oversight; they’d been caught up and he hadn’t pulled out in time. And then it kept happening, until nothing less would satisfy. So far, nothing has come of it, and if history serves then nothing ever would. With each year that goes by, the sadness wedged in his heart grows at that very inevitability.

He’s so lost in his musings that he doesn’t notice her approach until she grabs his hand and pulls him up from the chair, smirking with a coyness he’s become quite familiar with. Powerless to do anything else, he lets her lead him into the palace interior, through the maze of hallways all crafted of the same pink marble. She bids a polite greeting to a passing maid, then shoves him into her room and bolts the door behind her. She’s deceptively strong when she wants to be; though, admittedly, he’s never made any effort to resist her either.

She stands in front of him, confident and sultry. Her dress is held up by a single knot, and when she pulls it loose the whole swath of silk falls to the ground, leaving her delectably bare. He knows she is often discontented with her figure, has unfairly compared herself to the likes of Ashara and other maidens around her, but he can find no such faults. Perhaps her breasts are smaller than most, and perhaps her frame has more angles than curves, and perhaps occasionally there’s a pallor to her skin that the sun can’t seem to fix.

But beneath all that, she’s got a harder spine than anyone he’s met, a wit sharper than any sword, and a sensuality that has nothing to do with what her body may or may not be. And what does he care what people say? How can he, when she can send him into peals of laughter with a few short words, or steals him away after training just to spend hours massaging out the knots in his muscles, or when his name on her lips can snatch the very breath from his lungs?

No, he doesn’t understand it one bit.

Not that he’s _told_ her how he feels, as such. He’d like to think she has some idea; with any luck, he won’t have to fumble out a declaration after all. She must—surely she’s caught on that at any given time, all it takes is a glimpse of her to have him eagerly whisking her off to the nearest flat surface. When he’s buried deep inside her, the very world seems to stop. There is nothing but him and her as one, as it should ever be.

Her faint snicker informs him he’s become sidetracked, and he utters a sheepish apology. She skillfully works off his pants, by now impeccably efficient with such a task, and tosses them aside. And then her mouth is on his, her breasts pressed against his bare chest, and he loses all coherence.

Unable to bear the torture, he carries her to the bed, forgoing gentleness when he enters her—a decision that has Elia arching into him and raking her nails up his back. Most days, he enjoys going slowly, wanting to draw it out for fear that this could end at any moment, but now the heat overcomes him and slow is the _last_ thing he wants to be. Elia tightens her legs around his hips, silently urging him to get on with it.

He obliges, with fervor. Desperate to bring her to release before himself, he quickens his pace and wanders his hand down her body to where they’re joined. She cries out as she crashes over the edge, and he thinks not even Starfall’s summer sunsets could compare to the sight of her writhing beneath him. Immersed in his own pleasure an instant later, he only vaguely hears himself whisper, “I love you.”

He hadn’t intended for it to slip out. Hadn’t even determined when or _if_ he wanted to express the depth of his feelings for her, let alone do it _now_ , like _this_. He blames Oberyn for confronting him about it in the first place, for accusing him of being a coward. He’s about to retract it, to blither an explanation, except then she regards him in curiosity, those dark eyes boring into his, and the words stick in his throat. She’s silent for so long that he awkwardly climbs off her, begins to dress, and prays his humiliated blush isn’t as obvious as he thinks it is.

The longer she maintains her silence, the more he regrets his senseless confession, for what right did he have? She had taken him into her bed, but that meant little. She’s a beautiful woman with an appetite, and he was simply available and willing— _gods_ was he willing. She is a princess of Dorne, and what is he? Nothing more than the second son of a vassal house with nothing of worth to offer her. No castles, no prestige, no legacy. A knight by her own uncle’s making, sure, but knights are nine a penny.

He fumbles with his breeches, trying to turn them right side out, and then a pair of warm hands covers his. He dares to meet Elia’s gaze, violet on black. “Did you mean it?” she asks, cocking her head. “I’ve heard sometimes men just blurt out things while they’re…you know.”

She’s offering him a reprieve, a rationalization for him to use to save himself the mortification. Except he’s never lied to her before, and it is not a lie that comes out of his mouth this time either. “Yes. I meant it.”

She bites her lip in consideration, then gives him a soft smile and an even softer kiss. “Then say it again.”

“What?”

“Say it _again_.”

His heart beats so loudly he’s certain she can hear it echoing through the room. “I love you.”

Her smile widens, and there’s such _happiness_ on her face that his head spins. “I’ve waited so long to hear you say that.”

Taking advantage of his disbelief, she tugs him back into bed and braces herself on his chest. His voice is little more than a croak. “You—what?”

She leans down and kisses him once more, deeper but no less sweet. “I love you, too, Arthur Dayne.” He knows he must look a fool, gawking up at her as he is, but it is she who’s uncharacteristically shy when she continues, “I would’ve said it ages ago, only I was afraid of ruining things if you didn’t feel the same.”

Part of him thinks she’s jesting, that of all the men in the realm it couldn’t possibly be _him_ who holds her heart, but the rest of him doesn’t care, and when he takes her again (and again, and again), it feels different. _Everything_ is different. How she looks at him, how he can’t get enough of her no matter how often they lie together, how there’s a light inside her no sickness could ever dim. Deep down, he knows it can’t last: the crevasse between their stations is too wide and her mother’s ambitions too high, but for now he lets himself get lost in her, surrounded by the love he could have never imagined.

He loves her still when he joins the Kingsguard after her suitors begin to come in earnest, each one more advantageous than he could ever be. He loves her every time he sees a tumble of curls the color of midnight or hears the clink of golden bangles; when he wins tournament after frivolous tournament not for fame, but in the feeble hope that she would be in the stands and he could tell the world what she is to him, to make them see what he does.

He loves her more when their daughter is born on dreary Dragonstone entirely in his image but for the brown of her skin and his mother’s eyes. Lying with Elia in the month before her wedding should have been free of consequence, as it was when they were younger; Rhaenys wasn’t supposed to happen, let alone _now_.

He hates that his sacred oaths have been shattered beyond repair—but when he holds her in his arms, it’s hard to remember why they were so important. For suddenly the dream he’d thought impossible all those years back has materialized into a beautiful little girl, albeit one he can never claim for his own. He knows that he can only ever be her shield, never her father, he knows Uncle Arthur is as close as he can get, and that’s all right. Being around her, protecting her, that’s enough.

(If every day he weighs the costs of ripping up the white cloak that has brought him little more than misery and spiriting away the three of them somewhere the crown can’t find them…well. No one has to know.)

He loves her most when he’s a thousand miles away outside a derelict tower while war rages on, when he sees her fire in the she-wolf and her elegance in the Red Mountains and her warmth under the scorching Dornish sun. When Lyanna asks him if there’s someone he left behind, he denies it. It’s not a lie, not entirely—he left behind _two_ someones.

When the end comes, the defeated Lord of Winterfell at Dawn’s mercy, he espies Stark’s diminutive crannogman with an arrow tipped in black nocked and ready. In that moment, he has the answer he’s been searching for. While life remains in him, he would never again feel Elia’s hand in his, would never see Rhaenys grow up happy and healthy. Revenge is all he’d have. Revenge, and an entire realm condemning him for the war predicated in part on his actions.

He studies Dawn, his familiar, steadfast sword all but weightless in his grip. Its ancient blade is more red than white now, stained with the blood of northmen whose names he doesn’t know, and he wonders to whom it would go next. Allem’s son, mayhaps, if he ever got around to having one. The young man kneeling before him tracks his movements warily, waiting for Dawn’s bite. He would die well, no bribe attempts or blubbering, but today is not his day.

“Would that we all had your honor, Lord Stark. I pray you never lose it.” He doesn’t understand, this boy who had once been so nervous he couldn’t ask Ashara to dance without his big brother’s help, but he would soon.

Arthur finds a kindly sort of _knowing_ in Howland Reed’s eyes, and smiles.


End file.
